


70. Disgust

by howelleheir



Series: DS9 100 Theme Challenge [7]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, F/M, M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-19 20:30:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17608415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howelleheir/pseuds/howelleheir
Summary: A frustrating professional setback sends Weyoun to Kilana for support and comfort, but something about her isn't right.





	70. Disgust

“You _have_ to learn to control your temper,” Zheilan said.

Weyoun's eyes widened incredulously. “ _I_ have to learn to control _my_ temper? Did you _talk_ to Mikhar? He's an argumentative, petulant—”

“Soldiers conquer by blood,” said Zheilan, “but the wise—”

“The _wise,”_ Weyoun countered, “probably never had to deal with a 400-pound Lomutian who won't keep his tendrils to himself and can't take a breath without finding something new to complain about.”

“You're going to have to apologize to him,” said Zheilan. “You might still be reassigned, but if you _don't..._ Well, just see that you do. I like you, Weyoun. I wouldn't want anything to jeopardize your potential.”

Weyoun nodded tersely. He didn't trust himself to speak.

Zheilan cleared his throat. "I have a meeting with Mikhar's head of Security. Please think about what I said.”

Weyoun fumed the whole way back to Kurill Prime, wondering if he were really suited to diplomacy. As a geneticist in Shi Mar, he'd had absolute control over his staff — he had never, _never_ had to raise his voice to do his job, and there was never any question that _he_ was in charge. Of course a lesser species couldn't help their lack of civility, they didn't know any better, but going back to Mikhar's quarters, putting on a mask of earnest repentance and reciprocating his pathetic advances...It made his skin crawl just to think of it.

“Where are you transporting to?” asked the lone Jem'Hadar assigned to him.

Weyoun sighed. Officially, he had lived in Kama’ara for the past fifteen years, but his assignments had kept him from ever really settling in, and at the moment, he couldn’t bear the thought of being alone in those quarters, and the alternative — socializing with the hosts — sounded exhausting.

“Shi Mar,” he said decisively. “Sector security office.”

 

“You look awful,” Kilana said almost before he had fully materialized.

“So do you,” said Weyoun — her eyes were dark and puffy, and she looked quite pale. “Long day?”

Kilana shook her head. “The Iyat Mar case,” she said. “There was a lead — break ins at the research facility on Iyam. I've been there and back seven times in the last few days. What about you?”

Weyoun laughed humorlessly. “The Lomutian incorporation,” he said. “Can’t discuss business over a meal, but they eat five times a day. And when their leader _isn't_ eating, all he wants to discuss is how _unfair_ our terms are. All because I won't assign a hundred hosts to his private residence.”

Kilana's eyebrows shot up. “A _hundred?_ What does he need with—”

“'One for each tendril’.”

Kilana burst out laughing, and that got Weyoun started, and by the time they'd manage to stop, they were flushed and teary-eyed, chests heaving. Kilana got up from her desk and threw her arms around Weyoun’s neck.

“Thank you,” she said. “I think I needed that after the week I’ve had.”

As she spoke, her voice cracked and she let out a soft sob. Weyoun pulled back, searching her face. “This isn’t all about the Iyat Mar case,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“I think I might just be having trouble settling in,” Kilana said, and pushed up her sleeve showing him the iteration mark on the inside of her arm — _Lauva._

“I had no idea you’d cloned again,” said Weyoun. “When?”

Kilana sank back into her chair. “Two weeks ago. An operation on Tevlin-De went sour, I ended up on the wrong end of the disrupter fire. I was sent straight back to contain the conflict. I...I haven't felt _right_ since I was activated.”

Weyoun tilted his head. “How so?”

“I can't describe it,” she said. “Not really. I feel...out of place, and I've been so emotional, angry, and I haven't been able to sleep. Every time I try, I _dream,_ and it's awful…”

She trailed off into silence. Neither of them wanted to ask the question that hung in the air, but Weyoun managed it first.

“Do you think you're defective?” he asked quietly.

“No,” she said at last. “Someone would have caught it before I was activated. Defective clones don't just get sent out into the field.”

Weyoun shook his head. “It _has_ happened.”

“Not to one of Liran's lines,” she snapped.

Weyoun stared, slackjawed. He had _never_ known Kilana to raise her voice — she'd always had a much better temperament than his.

“Your behavior,” he said, “suggests otherwise.”

Kilana stood suddenly, her mouth tight and her eyes glistening. “You can't _imagine_ the pressure I'm under. I don't get to sit around eating and drinking with heads of state all day. Every move I make has the kind of consequences that could send me straight to Discontinuation. So pardon me for showing the slightest bit of frustration — _privately,_ I'll remind you, unlike _you_ as Zheilan tells it.” Her expression twisted into a nasty sneer. “But you diplomats are at liberty to do whatever you like. You could ruin a vital alliance and walk away with a gentle reprimand!”

“Are we discussing my viability or yours?” Weyoun asked sternly.

Kilana's face crumpled, fury draining from every feature and leaving only exhaustion. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I really am just overworked.”

“If you _were_ defective,” said Weyoun, trying to keep his tone as gentle as he could, “you shouldn't try to hide it. You'll be caught, and you might not get a second chance. But if you were to self-terminate, it might—”

“I'm not,” Kilana interrupted. “I'm sure I'm not. I'm overextended. That's all.” She took a breath, hesitated, then spoke again, “Will you stay here tonight? I could really use the company.”

Weyoun nodded, comforted by Kilana finally sounding like herself.

 

The Security barracks were nothing near Weyoun's comparatively lavish quarters in Kama’ara — Kilana's single room was squat and grey and utilitarian, cast in harsh artificial light. They stripped off their uniforms in silence, Kilana wrapping herself in a plush blue robe and shivering at the cold tile against her feet.

It had been years since they'd shared quarters, when they'd both been assigned to the Shi Mar cloning facility, but the moment they climbed into the narrow bed, Weyoun felt a womb-like calm wash over him.

“Are you warm enough?” she asked, toying with the thin fabric of his undergarment. “I have another robe you could wear.”

“Mh,” Weyoun hummed. “I'll be alright. Just stay close.”

Kilana settled on Weyoun's shoulder, her hand resting on his stomach. He was nearly asleep when she shifted, throwing a leg between his and propping herself up on her elbows above him, her robe open and draped around them both.

“What are you doing?” he murmured.

Her breath at his ear broke him out in goosebumps. “It's alright,” she said. “I just want to be close to you.”

In the dark, he couldn't see her expression, but her voice carried a frightening determination, and he could feel her hand working open the front closures of his undergarment and groping at his bare skin, and her mouth, wet and feverish, working over his throat.

“Kilana,” he hissed, recoiling from her touch. “Please go to sleep. I don't know what you think you're—”

“Oh, don't pretend you _haven't,_ ” she cut in, and pinned his hands above his head, pressing her thigh upward, then grinding down against his. “The Diplomatic Corps never met a problem they couldn't solve by getting on their knees. That's how you smoothed things over with Mikhar, isn't it? Did you let him _fuck_ you?”

Kilana was stronger than him by a couple orders of magnitude, but adrenaline was on his side, and Weyoun managed to shove her away and scramble to his feet.

“You _are_ defective,” he said, closing the front of his undergarment and pulling on his uniform as quickly as he could manage. “I shouldn't have stayed. I should have realized.”

“I'm sorry,” Kilana breathed. “Please, I'm not...I wasn't thinking straight.”

Weyoun bit at the insides of his cheeks. “I _have_ to report this to sector overseer.”

Her eyes went wide. “No, please, please just listen. It was a mistake! If you report this, they'll kill me, you _know_ they will!”

“I would hope you'd do the same for me,” he said. “Before it got out of hand.”

“Weyoun, please!”

“I'm sorry. I don't have a choice.”

He turned away and went out the door, ignoring her pleas for him to come back, to talk to her, to change his mind. He couldn't so much as look at her again.

His heart didn't stop racing until he was blocks away from the Security compound, his feet having carried him by genetic memory to the abandoned Shi Mar facility. The weeds had overtaken the pathways in the decades since its closure, and a crack had formed in its foundation, winding up the rounded faces of the staggered levels. He sat on the wide steps and looked down the hill to the city, a blur of bluish light against the inky horizon.

Perhaps he'd been wrong.

What evidence was there, after all, that Kilana was defective? A single outburst, one lapse in judgement. Hardly irrefutable proof. Wasn't it possible that she really was just under enormous pressure? No matter how distasteful he found her advances, how disturbing her behavior, he wasn't sure he was prepared to offer her up to the Sector Overseer — if she was declared defective, there was a real possibility that her line would be discontinued entirely. How many times had she counselled him? Listened to his struggles and offered perspective? Didn't he owe her as much? But then again, wasn't it cruel to enable her? If she was truly defective, wouldn't it be wrong, _selfish,_ to prolong her suffering?

It was nearing dawn before he finally made a decision, and even then, his reservations were strong. He stood and retraced his steps back to the Security barracks. Kilana had been his companion and closest confidant for over a century. He could forgive this solitary indiscretion, and if she needed his help, he would do whatever was necessary.

Her door was still unlocked when he arrived.

“Kilana,” he called, giving a courteous knock before stepping over the threshold.

She had fallen asleep on top of the blankets, her robe spread open around her. He started to cover her up — the room was cold — but something stopped him in his tracks, an overwhelming sense of wrongness. He stared hard at her for a moment.

His hand flew to his mouth to stifle the shuddering, gasping cry that issued from it.

There was no movement, no rise and fall in her chest.

This close, he could see the faint purple network of collapsed veins spreading out from her jaw across the pale delicate skin of her cheek.

Her hand was still curled around the back of her ear, where she had pressed her termination implant.


End file.
